


Nuneaton, or The Adventure Of The Missing Teddy Bear

by flawedamythyst



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Shappey goes to 221B with a case. Hijinks ensue.</p><p> </p><p><b>ETA:</b> This was written before John Finnemore clarified the rules for Yellow Car, and as such features inaccurate gameplay. I apologise if you find this upsetting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuneaton, or The Adventure Of The Missing Teddy Bear

“Right,” said John, hunting through the stack of newspapers that had appeared where he had left his wallet. “I'm off to the shop. Try not to destroy the flat before I get back.”

“But I can destroy it once you return?” asked Sherlock, emerging from the kitchen where he had been doing something that had produced a nauseating smell and a green-tinged haze of smoke.

“Actually, no destruction at all would be preferable,” said John, finding his wallet and tucking it into his pocket.

Sherlock made a face. “Boring,” he pronounced, and collapsed backwards onto the sofa. “It doesn't matter, anyway. You're not going anywhere.”

John paused in the act of picking his keys up. “I'm not?” he asked.

“No,” said Sherlock. “We have a client coming. You wouldn't miss that.” He sounded supremely confident and for a moment John was tempted to go out anyway, just to spite him. The infuriating man was right though; John really didn't want to miss out on one of Sherlock's cases if he could help it.

He let out a sigh and put his keys back down. “All right, what's the case?”

Sherlock shrugged, which created an odd movement given the position he was in. “His email mentioned a kidnapping, but he didn't say of whom.”

The doorbell rang. “That will be him now,” said Sherlock, swivelling into a more normal sitting position. “Go and let him in, will you?”

John stared at him in disbelief, then stumped downstairs to open the door.

On the other side of it was a man who gave John a beaming smile. “Hello!” he said. “I'm Arthur Shappey. Are you Sherlock Holmes? You're shorter than I expected.”

“I'm not Sherlock,” said John, trying to work out if he had meant to be insulting, or if the vacant, cheerful look on his face was genuine. Before he could clarify his identity, Sherlock's voice came from the top of the stairs.

“This is John Watson, my colleague,” he said. “Do come up, Mr. Shappey.”

“Oh, yes please,” said Arthur, coming inside and looking around with awe. “And please call me Arthur. Everyone does. Well, sometimes Mum calls me idiot-boy, but mostly it's Arthur.”

John thought of some of the names that Sherlock called people he deemed less intelligent than himself as he followed Arthur up the stairs, and thought that Arthur had got off pretty lightly with 'idiot-boy'.

“Wow,” said Arthur as they stepped into the sitting room, sounding impressed. “Are these all your things? Is that a real skull? That's brilliant!”

Sherlock glanced at the skull and then back at Arthur with a faint frown and John could see he was trying to decide if any case was worth having to talk to him. “Please sit down,” he said eventually, and John let out a breath of relief. Better a Sherlock ranting about idiots but with a case than one lying on the sofa without one, sinking into a pit of depression.

Arthur sat down. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“Yes,” allowed Sherlock.

“And you're a proper real detective?”

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. “Yes,” he said. “Of course I am – that's why you're here, isn't it?”

“Sorry, yes,” said Arthur. “It's just that you don't have one of those hats, you see.”

“Which hats?” asked Sherlock, sounding confused.

“The big ones, with the brim,” said Arthur. “You know, like they always have in the films.”

“A fedora,” guessed John, trying to hide his amusement. From the look Sherlock gave him, he wasn't entirely successful.

“Yes!” said Arthur. “And one of those big coats as well, but I suppose you wouldn't be wearing that indoors.”

“I wouldn't be wearing a hat indoors either,” Sherlock pointed out.

Arthur had to think about that. “I suppose not,” he said. “Does that mean you do have one, then?”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Oh,” said Arthur, deflating somewhat.

“He does have a big coat, though,” put in John. Sherlock glowered at him. “He has to go undercover a lot, you see,” continued John, sitting down. “And he found the hat gave him away as a detective too much, so he got rid of it.” Sherlock's glare at him grew blacker.

Arthur perked up. “Oh, yes, I suppose it would be a bit obvious. Wow, that's very clever.” He gave Sherlock an admiring look. “You really are a proper detective then. I was so excited when Mum said I could come and see one. I love detectives.”

“Yes, why are you here?” asked Sherlock, sitting forward. “Your email mentioned a kidnapping.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, and some of the excitement went out of him. “Mum said I should really call it a theft, but Douglas is more than just a thing. Maybe I should have called it a bearnapping,” he mused.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “A bearnapping,” he repeated, and John could tell he was very close to just throwing Arthur out of the flat for wasting his time, then throwing one of his over-the-top tantrums.

He stepped in before that happened. “Your teddy bear has gone missing?”

“He's not just my bear,” said Arthur. “He's the whole company's bear – he's our mascot. We've never flown without him. He disappeared after we got back from Berlin on Monday. We're going to Dallas on Friday, and we can't go without him. You can't fly without a mascot.”

“Which company?” asked Sherlock. He'd sat back into his seat in a despondent manner, but at least he was still paying attention.

“Mum's company,” said Arthur, which at least explained why anyone would employ him. “MJN Air. It's a charter airline. Well, I say airline, but there's only one plane. She's the best plane, though, except when bits drop off.”

Sherlock made a tiny, pained sound and slumped further in his chair.

John cleared his throat. “And the bear just disappeared? You're sure it didn't get lost or moved by someone?”

“I asked everyone,” said Arthur. “And then Mum made us all spend two hours yesterday looking, before Douglas – the other Douglas, the not-a-bear one – told her that he was a pilot, not a professional scavenger hunter and left, and then Martin had to go for a job, and Mum said that as we hadn't found it, I could hire a detective.”

“And you came to me,” said Sherlock in the tone of voice that meant he was wondering what he had done to deserve such a fate. John thought that he could probably tell him, or at least write out a list of possible contenders. The smell in the kitchen would be on it, as well as whatever had been in the bath last week.

“Can you tell us when you realised it was missing?” he asked Arthur, because he could tell that Sherlock wasn't going to take the case, but that didn't mean that he couldn't use it to get a little of his own back. Exposing Sherlock to as much of Arthur as he could get away with would do that nicely.

“In my own words?” asked Arthur. “I love doing things in my own words.”

“I think I'd prefer anyone else's words, actually, but it seems we don't have a lot of choice,” said Sherlock.

John frowned at him, hoping he wasn't going to start getting rude, but Arthur didn't seem to have noticed.

“Okay, well, we came back from Berlin on Monday night, and then Martin and Douglas went home, and Mum did something with paperwork and a glass of sherry in the office, and I cleaned up the plane, and he was definitely there then, because I was talking to him.”

“You were talking to the teddy bear,” repeated Sherlock with disdain.

“You talk to the skull,” John pointed out, earning himself another glare. He wondered how many more he could score before Arthur left.

“Well, I say talking,” said Arthur. “It was more singing, really. I'm not allowed to sing around other people, but Douglas – bear-Douglas, not the other one – never minds.” He paused, and for the first time his apparently bullet-proof cheerfulness faltered. “Minded,” he corrected himself.

“And then?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, I had to go to the office because one of the clients had been a bit ill in the toilet, and I ran out of cleaner trying to sort it out. And then, when I came back, Douglas was gone.”

“I see,” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers. “So there's a very clear window when the bear was removed. Did you see anyone around?”

“Only Trevor. He's the security man. Everyone else had gone home – it was pretty late by then. Stag trips always take a long time to clear up.”

“Why would anyone want to take a teddy bear, though?” asked John. “Was anything else missing? There must be more valuable things on the plane than a bear, surely?”

“Mum had a look and didn't see anything else gone,” said Arthur. “Douglas was the most important thing on the plane to me, though. I've had him since I was six.”

“This was clearly targeted at you, then,” said Sherlock. “It's probably just someone playing a game with you.”

“That's what Mum said,” said Arthur. “But she went round and yelled at everyone, and no one had him. And people always give her what she wants when she yells like that.”

“It'll turn up,” said Sherlock dismissively, letting his eyes fall shut. “You're wasting my time.”

Arthur's face fell and John began to feel a bit sorry for him. “No, you have to help,” said Arthur. “You're a detective. You find lost things.”

“I'm a consulting detective, not a finder of lost toys,” said Sherlock.

Arthur looked for a moment as if he was going to cry and John quickly headed that off. “You're sure that no one who was at the airfield has it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Arthur. “It was only me, Mum and Trevor there, and Mum wouldn't have taken him. Well, she might have, but if she did she'd have told me. And why would Trevor want Douglas? He doesn't need a mascot, and if he did, he'd have to find a security guard bear, not a pilot one.”

Sherlock's eyes flew open. “It's a pilot bear?” he asked.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, he's got a hat and everything. Do you want to see a picture?”

Sherlock nodded curtly. Arthur fumbled in his pocket. “I thought you might, so I went through all our old albums to find one. It's a bit old now, but he hasn't changed much. Just got a bit less fluffy.”

He passed Sherlock a photo that looked to be a decade or two old. Sherlock took one glance at it and sat up straight. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, that would explain your mother's preoccupation with finding it.”

“What?” asked Arthur. “What would?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, handing the photo to John. It showed a much younger Arthur, perhaps ten or eleven, standing in front of an aeroplane and grinning with just as much guileless pleasure as he had earlier. Clutched in his arms was a brown bear dressed in a blue pilot's outfit. John stared at the photo, but couldn't see what Sherlock had seen that was important.

“Who knows about where the bear is usually kept?” asked Sherlock, sitting forward again, and John realised, with surprise, that he had gone from 'leave my sight you time-wasting idiot' to 'a case! I have a case!' He looked back at the photo, but still couldn't see what about it marked this as worth investigating.

“Well, just me and Mum and Skip and Douglas, I suppose,” said Arthur. “He sits in the galley, on top of the microwave, and we don't let passengers back there. Well, we try not to.”

Sherlock stood up. “I'll need to speak to all of you,” he announced. “And I'll need to see the aeroplane.”

Arthur glowed with joy. “You'll help? Brilliant! I'll call Mum.”

He went out into the hall to make the call, and John looked at the photo again while Sherlock fiddled with his phone. “All right,” he said eventually, giving in. “What did you see that made you change your mind? Is there an international criminal mastermind in the background or something?”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly,” he said. He turned his phone around to show John the screen, on which there was a picture of a teddy bear that looked a lot like Douglas. “Last year, this bear sold at auction for £1050.”

John felt his eyes pop out of his head. “What? Over a grand for a teddy bear?”

“It's a 1953 limited edition Stieff pilot bear. Only 100 were ever made. They're something of the holy grail in the world of teddy bear collectors,” explained Sherlock. “It's clear that our client has no idea of the worth of his mascot, but his mother must, or she would not have sent him to me. I suspect that when we talk to her, we will get a much clearer picture of the situation.”

Arthur came back in to the room then, still grinning. John wondered if his cheek muscles ever ached, or if a lifetime of smiling all the time had built them up to superhuman strength. “Mum said we could go to the airfield now,” he said. “Skip and Douglas are both there, so you can talk to them as well.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John.” He started towards the door, but Arthur stopped him.

“Aren't you going to put your coat on?”

Sherlock stared at him. “It's 28 degrees outside,” he pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but don't you have to wear it, like a uniform? Skip and Douglas wear their jackets even when we're somewhere hot. Well, Skip does, and his hat as well. He fainted in Cairo.” Arthur tipped his head to one side and squinted at Sherlock, who was staring at him with faint horror, as if terrified to live in the same world as him. “Actually, you look a bit like Skip. Only less red-faced.”

“That's because I don't wear an inappropriate number of layers in the heat,” snapped Sherlock. “May we please go before you drain my intelligence completely?”

 

****

 

Arthur drove them to Fitton. It was the most terrifying experience of John's life, worse than anything that had happened in Afghanistan, worse than being kidnapped by Moriarty, far worse than any of his nightmares. He clung to the door handle with white knuckles, staring death in the face, while Arthur kept up a cheery monologue and felt the urge to point out every time they passed a yellow car.

Less than quarter of the way there, Sherlock leaned forward from the back and said, “If you don't cease this inane babble, I will have you arrested under the anti-terrorist laws on the grounds that every word you say is obviously a new form of auditory weapon.”

“You sound just like Mum,” said Arthur then, blissfully, shut up. John kept his eyes on the road in front of them and continued his inner mantra of 'please God, let us live.'

When they finally arrived at Fitton airfield, John had to pry his fingers open from their death grip and take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself.

“We'll get the train back,” said Sherlock and John gave him an extremely grateful look.

Arthur led them to a shabby portacabin that had a lopsided sign on it reading 'MJN Air'.

“Mum, look!” he called as he bounced up the steps and opened the door. “It's a real live detective! He's not got a hat, but he does have a coat, only he's not wearing it because it's too hot, but he does have one!”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and made a growling noise in his throat as he followed Arthur up the stairs and inside, and John had to hide a smile. For a moment he considered buying Sherlock a fedora as a joke, but decided that Sherlock's retribution would make it ultimately not worth it.

Inside the portacabin was a woman of around Mrs. Hudson's age, who was giving Arthur an exasperated look, and a middle-aged man in shirt sleeves who had propped himself in front of the only fan.

“Be quiet, Arthur,” said the woman, stepping forward and holding her hand out to Sherlock. “I'm Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock, shaking her hand. “This is my colleague, John Watson.”

John shook her hand as well, just as footsteps pounded up the steps and the door of the cabin opened.

“Carolyn, I must protest-” started the owner of the footsteps, then abruptly cut himself off. “Oh, sorry. Who's this?”

John turned to see another man in shirt-sleeves, but this one was younger and considerably better looking, and ginger to boot. What was it about men with red hair that made his knees go weak?

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” said Carolyn. “He's here to investigate the theft of Douglas the teddy bear.”

“Kidnapping,” corrected Arthur, and was ignored.

“Hello,” said the new-comer, holding his hand out to John. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Actually,” said Sherlock, pushing John to one side so that he could take the hand instead, “I'm Sherlock. And you must be the captain.”

“No, I'm-,” started the man, and then paused and blinked. “Uh, yes, actually. How did you know?”

“Your left thumb,” said John, treading on Sherlock's foot to get him out of the way as he stepped in to take the man's hand himself. He allowed himself a slightly longer handshake than he usually went for, taking in the feel of more callouses than he would have expected on a pilot's hand, and then having to shake off the sense-memory of what they might feel like wrapped around his cock. “I'm John Watson,” he added.

“Captain Martin Crieff,” the pilot said, and John hoped he wasn't just imagining that he seemed just as reluctant to let go of John's hand. God, he really was unfairly hot. Suddenly being dragged all the way to Fitton after a lost teddy bear seemed completely worth it.

“Hang on,” Martin said, turning to Carolyn. “You hired a detective to find a teddy bear? We had to stay in a youth hostel in Berlin, but you'll waste money on a detective for a lost toy?”

“I am never a waste of money,” said Sherlock haughtily.

“We have to get him back, Skip,” said Arthur. “You know we can't fly without a mascot.”

“I rather thought Arthur was the mascot,” said the man by the fan, who must be the other pilot. He'd had the same name as the teddy bear, John remembered: Douglas.

“I didn't even know we had a mascot until it went missing,” said Martin. “Come on, Carolyn, can we really afford this?”

“That's not your concern,” said Carolyn. “I am the CEO, you are the pilot. You worry about getting us from A to B without accidentally flying into a mountain, and I will worry about the sums. Besides which, I'm paying for him out of my own money.”

“For a teddy bear?” asked Martin, still sounding incredulous.

“It's not just a teddy bear, it's a security breach,” pointed out Carolyn. “Don't you want to know how someone managed to get into Gertie without anyone noticing, or would you prefer to leave it until we're 20,000 feet up in the air and discover someone has tampered with her systems?”

“Yes,” said Douglas. “Because, leaving aside the question of who, precisely, would want to bother tampering with Gertie when there's a high chance she'll just fall out of the sky on her own one day, whoever did it would definitely signal their visit by making off with a teddy bear.”

“Were there any signs of tampering?” asked Sherlock, sounding excited at the prospect of something that would make this case a little less mundane.

“No,” said Carolyn. “I had the plane checked over carefully, but it seems to have just been a theft.”

Sherlock looked a bit disappointed that this wasn't going to turn out to be a sabotage case, but rallied himself after a moment. “I will need to see the plane,” he announced.

“Are you going to look for clues?” asked Arthur. “I'll come! I love looking for clues.”

A pained look crossed over Sherlock's face. “I would prefer for you to stay here and endeavour to remember everything you can about Monday night,” he said.

“I'll take you,” said Martin. John gave him a grateful smile and then watched with great interest as a red blush crossed his face. Blushing was almost as sexy as red hair.

“Fine,” said Sherlock, already striding out of the portacabin. “As long as it's quickly.”

Martin grabbed a jacket that was hanging on the back of the door and pulled it on as he followed Sherlock. For a moment John was sad to be denied the sight of him in just his shirt – he'd been very much enjoying the way his shoulder muscles had filled it out, but then he noticed just how well-cut the jacket was. Men in uniform had always been a bit of a weakness for him, which had worked out pretty well for him in the army. A pilot's uniform was a refreshing change from khaki.

Martin showed them where the teddy bear had been kept, propped on top of the microwave, but wasn't able to answer many more questions about it. “I didn't ever ask about it,” he said. “To be honest, I rather thought it was hiding something broken or unairworthy, like the picture in the toilet that's there to hide the mould.”

“So you don't have any idea what it's worth,” said Sherlock, bending down to examine under the microwave.

“Worth?” repeated Martin. “How much is any teddy bear worth? A couple of quid at a car boot sale?”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, then crouched down to inspect the floor. Martin gave him a look of 'oh god there's a madman on my plane', which was rather similar to the more usual 'oh God there's a madman in my house' look that most of Sherlock's clients wore at one point or other.

“Don't mind him,” said John as comfortingly as he could. “He's just observing.”

“Observing the floor?” asked Martin. He shuddered. “Rather him than me – Arthur's cleaning isn't the best I've known.”

“Indeed,” muttered Sherlock from down by their feet. He leapt back up. “Right,” he said, pushing them back out of galley. “Get out of my way.”

He looked set on treating the rest of the cabin to the same close examination, so John pulled Martin out of the way and off the plane entirely. The sun was still beating down, so they sheltered in the shade under one of the wings.

“Is he always like that?” asked Martin.

“Oh yes,” said John. “You get used to it.”

Martin gave a last look at the aeroplane, then shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. I know what it's like to work with crazy people.”

John laughed. “Yes, Arthur does seem like a bit of a character.”

“He's not even the worst one,” said Martin. “At least you know where you are with him. Douglas is always running about eight scams at once, all of them with about fifteen different motives behind them.”

That was interesting. “Do you think he might have done this?” asked John.

Martin shook his head. “Why on earth would he take a teddy bear? Besides, he wouldn't have kept it up once he saw how upset Arthur was – he may manipulate and scheme, but he isn't actually malicious.”

“Right,” said John, mentally noting that, then wondering why he was bothering. Sherlock almost certainly had an idea of what had happened already – if he could solve a murder in a couple of hours, then a missing teddy bear wasn't going to take him very long at all.

“So,” said Martin, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You're a detective too?”

“No,” said John. “I'm just his assistant. I make sure he doesn't piss anyone off too badly.”

“And, uh, how did you get into that?” asked Martin. It was pretty warm, even under the wing, and his jacket was clearly too heavy for it. A thin film of sweat had formed on his forehead, and John found himself idly thinking about licking it away. “I can't imagine there's a training school for it, is there?”

John laughed, picturing a training school with lessons in infinite patience when faced with petty demands and apologising for someone else's behaviour. “I'm actually a doctor. I just fell into this, really. I needed a flatshare, and the next thing I knew I was running around on the trail of a murderer.”

Martin's eyebrows rose almost as far as his hairline. “A murderer? Christ.”

“It was sort of fun, actually,” said John, which didn't wipe the expression from Martin's face. John wondered if he was coming across as a bit odd.

Sherlock emerged from the aircraft before John could try and come up with something a bit normal to say. “We will inspect the perimeter of the airfield next,” he announced.

“Will we?” asked John, looking around at the long length of the fence that surrounded the airfield, and the way the sun was shining down on it.

“Yes,” said Sherlock in a voice that didn't allow for arguments.

John sighed. “You could probably get away with going back to the office,” he said to Martin. “There's no sense in all of us getting heatstroke.”

“I'll come,” said Martin. “I probably shouldn't leave you alone – airfield regulations and all.”

There was something in the way he said it that made John think that, really, he just wanted to come with them. Hopefully that had more to do with wanting to spend time with John than wanting to see the detective at work.

“Well, at least take off your jacket,” he said, “or you're going to roast.” Martin hesitated, and John found himself adding, “Besides, it's a shame not to take advantage of just how good your shoulders look in a shirt.”

Sherlock made a despairing noise that John ignored in favour of watching Martin go even pinker.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, right. Uh. Okay, yes, I'll, um. I'll take my jacket off, then.” He did so, and John allowed himself a more-than-obvious ogle, which made Martin's ears go bright red. John wanted to run his tongue over them.

Martin clearly didn't know what to do with his jacket once it was off, so John said, “We'll wait here while you put that back in the office.”

“Oh, good,” said Martin, looking down at the jacket and then up at John. “I'll just be a moment then.” He strode off in the direction of the office as if contemplating breaking into a run. John watched him go with interest. His arse really was fantastic.

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. “What have I said to you about hitting on people when we're on a case?” he asked.

“I've no idea,” said John. “I tune out everything that you have to say about my sex life.”

“It's unprofessional,” said Sherlock.

“Good thing I'm not a professional then,” said John. “Not a professional detective, at any rate. And I'm pretty sure that you're far more unprofessional than me, anyway – last month you told a client that you'd only take her case if she kept her nephew at least a hundred metres away from you at all times.”

Sherlock scowled. “He was worse than Anderson,” he said. “He was like a black hole for intelligence.”

“I'm surprised you didn't try the same thing with Arthur,” said John, watching as Martin made his way back towards them. His hair had become a bit dishevelled in the heat, and was falling over his forehead, contrasting with his still-red face. John wanted to run his hands through it.

“I thought about it,” said Sherlock, “but he's too integral to the case. I'll have to cross-examine him later,” he added gloomily. “It's going to be hell.”

Martin made it back over to them and gave John an uncertain smile that was more than a little adorable. “Better?” he asked in what might have been an attempt at a flirty tone, if you took out the nervous, high-pitched tone of it.

John raked his eyes over Martin's figure, then smiled at him. “Much,” he said. It seemed that Martin was at least a bit open to his advances, which made this whole ridiculous case completely worth it. If he could just get him to agree to dinner or something, it might just count as the best case they'd had in the last three months.

Sherlock huffed out a sigh, turned on his heel and stalked off to the nearest part of the fence. John and Martin followed him at a slower pace.

“What are we looking for, anyway?” asked Martin.

“I've no idea,” said John. “Hey, Sherlock! What are we looking for?”

“You are looking for nothing,” called back Sherlock. “Your observational skills are not to be trusted.”

“Ah,” said John. “We're just here to watch Sherlock be brilliant, then.”

“Oh, right,” said Martin. They followed Sherlock along the fence for a while, watching as he carefully examined every inch of it. “Don't you mind that he's a bit- you know?”

“Rude?” suggested John. “Bossy? Arrogant?”

“Yes,” said Martin, then ducked his head. “God, I'm sorry, that's an awful thing to say but he just seems very-, and you're so nice, I'm not sure why you would put up with it. Oh, that sounds even worse, that's not what I meant at all.”

John felt a little glow at 'so nice', and ignored the rest of the ramble with all the skill of someone who was used to blocking out insults every time Sherlock opened his mouth. “Well, it's because he is brilliant, I suppose,” he said. “I realise you've only seen him be rude and a bit strange so far, but he really is a genius. Besides, getting to chase around and have a bit of excitement beats sitting at home.”

“Ah,” said Martin quietly. “Yes, getting to do something you love is worth a few drawbacks.”

He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about, but before John could ask him about it, Arthur arrived, slightly out-of-breath.

“Hello chaps!” he said. “I couldn't wait any longer, I had to come and see what clues you've found. Has he worked out who did it yet? Was it the last person you'd suspect?”

“No, and no,” said John.

Sherlock had stopped and was looking up at a tree that partially overhung the fence with an expression that John recognised.

“You've clearly not climbed enough trees if you think someone could have climbed over the fence on that,” remarked John. “That branch isn't nearly strong enough for a person.”

“Not a grown person, no,” said Sherlock slowly, still staring at the tree, then he moved closer in order to inspect the fence underneath it.

“A monkey could climb it!” said Arthur. “I bet it was a monkey!”

“It wasn't a monkey,” said Sherlock in tones dripping with disdain. He had found something on the fence, something that he carefully pulled off and examined, then slipped into his pocket.

“I bet it was!” said Arthur. “There was probably a travelling circus-”

“Arthur, just how many travelling circuses do you think pass through Fitton?” interrupted Martin.

“Lots,” said Arthur immediately.

“Right,” said Sherlock, clapping his hands together. “I'll need to speak to you all individually now.”

“Oh!” said Arthur, bouncing a little with excitement. “Is this the part where you shine bright lights in our faces and shout a lot?”

“No,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth. “This is the part where you attempt to act as if you haven't had a full-frontal lobotomy, so that I can solve this crime and then never have to see or hear you again.”

“Oh,” said Arthur.

“Sherlock!” said John. “Was that really necessary?”

Sherlock looked at his face, rolled his eyes, and took off back towards the office.

“Ignore him,” John said to Arthur. He wanted to say that Sherlock hadn't meant it, but he was afraid that not even Arthur would believe that.

“It's okay,” said Arthur. “He's a bit short-tempered, isn't he?”

“It's the heat,” said John. “It makes him irritable.” Well, more irritable than usual.

Arthur nodded. “I know what'll help! I'll make some lemonade.”

“No!” said Martin. “That's quite all right, Arthur, there's no need for one of your culinary disasters.”

“They're not always disasters,” said Arthur. “You enjoyed-” He paused. “No, all right, you haven't enjoyed any of them, but I think that's because you don't give them a chance.”

Martin looked at John. “Last month he made us sandwiches while we were on stand-by. Mine had a whole lemon sliced up in it.”

“It was tuna!” protested Arthur. “You always have lemon with fish.”

“Not that much lemon!” said Martin. “You have a drizzle of juice, not the entire fruit!”

“Well, that would have been a waste of a lemon, to cut it up for just a bit of juice,” said Arthur.

Martin threw a despairing look at John, who couldn't help laughing. “He has a point,” he said.

“Oh, you're no help,” grumbled Martin.

John shrugged. “If you want to experience true culinary horror,” he said, “you should take a look in our fridge some time.”

 

****

 

Sherlock threw everyone out of the office so that he could use it as an interview room despite objections from Douglas, who seemed especially loath to leave the fan.

“Shut it, Douglas,” said Carolyn firmly. “The sooner he asks his questions, the sooner we can sort this whole thing out.”

“Can I go first?” asked Arthur.

Sherlock eyed him with distaste. “I suppose you'll have to,” he said.

“Brilliant!” said Arthur. The others left the office and Arthur sat down with an excited, expectant look. “Do you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God?” he asked.

Sherlock gave John a pained look and John began to wonder if he was going to be able to make it through this without choking Arthur to death.

“Just tell us what you know,” John suggested.

That made Arthur look very worried. “Oh, I don't really know much at all,” he said. He thought for a moment. “I know a lot about Egypt,” he offered. “Did you know, in ancient Egypt-”

“About the case!” interrupted Sherlock. “Tell us what you know about the case! You were the last to see the bear – did you see anything suspicious?”

“Suspicious? Like men in balaclavas?” asked Arthur.

“Anything out-of-the-ordinary,” put in John before Sherlock could have some sort of meltdown.

“Right,” said Arthur. “Um. No, no I didn't. There was just all the usual things, sorry.”

“Did you see anyone you weren't expecting to see?” asked Sherlock, clearly trying to get through this as quickly as possible.

“Just Mum,” said Arthur. “But I was expecting to see her. So, no.”

“And can you think of anyone who would want to take the bear?”

“This is rather fun, isn't it?” said Arthur. Sherlock glared at him. “Right, sorry. Um, no, not really. I mean, he's a good bear, but I don't know why anyone would want him. Unless it's all a massive plot to make sure we can't go to Dallas on Friday, but I think there might be a better way to do that than to take our mascot. Also, I think Mum might be thinking of going anyway, even though I told her we couldn't, not without Douglas.”

“No one has shown any interest in the bear recently?” continued Sherlock. John couldn't help noticing that his hands were clenched into fists.

Arthur paused and thought again. “No,” he said. “No, I can't think of anyone who's ever taken an interest, actually. You'd think they would, really. Sometimes I just don't understand people at all.”

“I suspect the feeling is mutual,” said Sherlock. “Right, that's all. Can you ask Carolyn to come in?”

“That's it?” asked Arthur. “But you didn't hit the table and demand to know where I was on the night in question at all.”

“We know where you were on the night in question,” Sherlock pointed out. “It was one of the first things you told us, back at the flat.”

“Oh, yes,” said Arthur. “Right, well, I'll get Mum then.”

He left, and Sherlock let out a long breath, shutting his eyes for a minute.

“Well done,” said John. Sherlock opened his eyes again to glare at him. “No, really,” said John. “I'm very impressed you didn't hurt him.”

Sherlock let out a breath. “It was rather difficult,” he admitted and they shared a grin.

Carolyn came in briskly. “Right, let's get this done quickly,” she said. “I have things to do, you know.”

“Let's start with what we already know you haven't told us,” said Sherlock. “When were you planning to let us know the true worth of the bear?”

“I didn't realise I'd have to,” said Carolyn. “Not if you're at all half-decent at your job.”

“Don't you think that 'a bear worth over £1000' might be more likely to secure my assistance than 'the aeroplane's mascot'?” asked Sherlock.

Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine then. I didn't want Arthur to know – he gets funny when things are worth a lot of money, and he's had that bear since he was six. It's the only thing that's really worth anything that his father has ever given him – not that the bastard has any idea of that, of course. He bought it for him at a church fête. There didn't seem any reason for Arthur to know its true worth.”

“I see,” said Sherlock. “What can you remember about Monday night?”

It turned out that Carolyn knew even less than Arthur had – she'd been in the office the whole time, right up until Arthur came and told her the bear had gone. She'd seen and heard nothing unusual.

“All right,” said Sherlock. “That's all. Could you ask First Officer Richardson to come in?”

“Ask him yourself,” said Carolyn, standing up. “I'm not your gopher.”

Sherlock gave John an expectant look as she left.

“I'm not your gopher either,” said John, not moving.

“I have good reason to believe that he will be in the company of Captain Crieff,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

John scowled at him, but stood up. “Fine,” he said. Sherlock smiled smugly.

 

****

 

Douglas and Martin were in the shade around the back of the portacabin. As John circled it to get to them, he could hear their conversation.

“Well, Mr. Watson certainly seems to have taken a shine to you,” Douglas was saying in an amused drawl. John wondered for a moment if he should somehow alert them to his presence, but it was too tempting to find out what Martin might say to that. He seemed to be responding pretty well to John's advances, but John had thought that before and then ended up getting knocked back.

“It's Doctor Watson, actually,” said Martin, and then, as if thinking better of saying anything to encourage Douglas, “And you can shut up about it.” Well, that sounded promising.

“Oh, no,” protested Douglas. “I'm impressed, not mocking. A doctor! Gosh.”

There was a tiny pause. “You're impressed?” asked Martin. John slowed his pace so that he could hear the rest of the conversation.

“Oh yes,” sad Douglas. “I'm never actually seen nervous-and-stuttering succeed as a seduction technique. It's fascinating.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Martin. “Who said I was trying to seduce him, anyway?”

John gave up all pretence that he was still moving and stopped where he was, just around the corner from them.

“Oh, Martin,” said Douglas, and John was reminded of the long-suffering tone of voice Sherlock used when John failed to deduce something that he thought was obvious. “Do you really think I'd miss the distinctive signs of the Crieff mating dance, just because they're being directed at a different gender than usual? I have to say, you have managed to keep that one rather quiet up until now.”

“Because it's none of your business,” said Martin.

John's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out to find a text from Sherlock. _Stop eavesdropping and hurry up. SH_. He scowled at it but dutifully started moving again, rounding the corner to find Martin and Douglas propped against the wall.

“Sherlock would like to ask you a few questions,” John said to Douglas.

“Lucky me,” said Douglas dryly, then pulled himself away from the wall and headed around to the door of the office.

Martin had straightened up from his relaxed pose at the sight of John. “Hello,” he said in a voice that came out a little high-pitched. “I mean,” he added hurriedly in a lower tone. “Hello. How are you?”

John grinned at him. “I've been fine for the twenty minutes since you last saw me,” he said.

“Right, right, yes, sorry,” said Martin. He looked flustered, and John felt a tiny warm glow that he was affecting him so much. “How's the questioning going? Or are you not allowed to tell me in case I'm the thief? Not that I am, of course, why would I steal a teddy bear? Well, except to annoy Arthur, but I wouldn't do that. Of course, that's what I'd say if I did take it, but I didn't. Or maybe I did.” He gave a nervous-sounding laugh. “That was just a joke, I really didn't take it,” he added.

John was beginning to see what Douglas had meant by 'nervous-and-stuttering'. It was making him wonder what kind of things Martin would come out with if John sucked his cock into his mouth. “I think I can safely believe you didn't take it,” he said. “If you had, I'd expect you to be on the run in South America by now.”

“Ha, yes,” said Martin. “Bolivia's nice this time of year, and I hear they're very accommodating to international teddy bear thieves. They have tea parties and everything.”

John's phone vibrated again and he checked it with a sigh. _Get back here. The case comes before flirting. SH._

“I need to get back,” he said. “Don't go too far – I expect Sherlock will want to talk to you next.”

Martin nodded. “Right,” he said. “I'll just be here. Waiting for you. Not for you, for Sherlock. Not for Sherlock, no, for- Uh. I'll just be waiting in general, really.”

John gave him a last smile, wishing he could stay and listen to more of Martin's impressively convoluted monologues, rather than go back to the portacabin so that he could sit in the corner and watch Sherlock ask questions. It didn't really seem to be the vital role that Sherlock had clearly decided it was.

 

****

 

“I'm not sure what you're implying,” Douglas was saying as John re-entered. “I wasn't even here when the bear was taken.”

“You knew how much the bear was worth, you knew where the bear would be and that it would be relatively easy to take, and you have two – no, three lots of alimony payments to keep up with,” said Sherlock. “You also have a tendency towards minor infractions of international smuggling laws – stealing a co-worker's toy isn't much beyond that.”

Douglas looked angry in a way that usually meant John was going to have to step in soon to prevent bodily harm to Sherlock. “Of course I didn't take Arthur's bear,” he said. “I may be an unprincipled rogue with far too many greedy ex-wives, but even I have my standards. Stealing a teddy bear from a half-wit isn't exactly in my oeuvre. If I had to make a wager, I'd say that Arthur has merely managed to put the thing somewhere that no one would think to look, and then forget about it.”

“Then it a good thing that you are not being asked to wager,” said Sherlock. “Of course that's not what happened. You can go,” he said, flapping his hand dismissively at Douglas. “Send in Captain Crieff, if you will.”

Douglas glowered at him and left the office.

“Do you think it was one of the crew then?” asked John.

Sherlock was looking down at his phone, looking something up. “Not really,” he said. “It had to be someone who knew that the bear was there, though, and it's best to rule out the obvious suspects first.”

“Well, it can't have been Martin,” said John. If for no other reason than that John found it very hard to believe that he'd be capable of the level of deception that would be necessary. The idea was rather refreshing compared with Sherlock's ability to lie perfectly, as well as mimic any emotional response he wanted. Martin's nervous stuttering was, at least, honest.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Don't be so sure,” he said. “He has secrets that may well bear some light on this case.”

“ _Bear_ some light,” said John, and giggled. Sherlock glared at him with the power of a thousand burning suns.

Martin arrived while John was still giggling. “Uh, hello,” he said, coming inside and glancing between the two of them curiously.

John gave him a broad smile. “Hello again,” he said, then gestured at the chair. “Sit down.”

Sherlock was leaning forward over the desk as if he owned it. “Captain Crieff,” he said. “Let us start with the most obvious question. Where is all your money going?”

The tips of Martin's ears went pink, which John rather enjoyed watching, but the rest of his face went rather white, which was not as pleasant to look at. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “Do I really have to point out what it is evident just from looking at you?” John took that to mean he was allowed to look over Martin's body again – just to see if he could work out what the hell Sherlock was talking about, of course, no other reason and certainly not that it really was a very nice body to look at.

Martin was looking rather terrified by now, and John felt sorry for him. He gave Sherlock a warning look that was completely ignored.

“Oh, come on,” said Sherlock. “You're an airline captain, but you have a second job – something that requires a lot of manual work and driving, but it must be something you can fit around flights. Oddjob man, then, with a van most likely. So you have two sources of income, but everything about your appearance says that you are living on the bare minimum, occasionally less. Where is the money going? You're not a drug addict – I'd be able to see that. You can't possibly have enough time around two jobs to lose that much money gambling. Secret children you're paying for? Some misdemeanor that's got into the hands of a blackmailer?”

Martin had frozen very still from the moment Sherlock had mentioned a second job and gone even whiter as he'd continued, until John was worried he was going to pass out. “You've got it wrong,” he said in a bit of croak after a couple of moments had passed.

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I haven't,” he said. “No airline captain has that pattern of callouses on his hands, or arm and shoulder muscles like that. I'll repeat the question: where is all your money going?”

“That's not what you've got wrong,” said Martin, beginning to sound irate. Well, angry was better than shocked or terrified, and was by far the most common reaction to Sherlock. “It was the two incomes part.” He took a deep breath. “I don't get paid by MJN Air. The money I get with my van is my only income.”

John remembered him saying _getting to do something you love is worth a few drawbacks_ and thought that not getting a salary for a full-time job was rather a large drawback, certainly worse than Sherlock's occasional abrasiveness.

“Oh, come on,” said Sherlock. “You expect me to believe that? It doesn't make any sense.”

Martin put his chin up. “I don't care what you believe, it's the truth,” he said. “You can ask Carolyn, if you must.” His voice was filled with stubborn pride and John admired his defiance in the face of Sherlock.

“I don't get paid for being your assistant,” John reminded Sherlock. “And you don't get paid for all your cases – the Yard have never paid you and you spend at least half your time doing cases for them. We're just lucky to have other sources of income.” He looked at Martin. “My boss at the surgery is very understanding about my tendency to cancel at the last minute because someone's been murdered.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “but solving crimes is _fun_. Steering a metal tube from one place for another, for _hours_ , that's just-”

“The only thing I've ever wanted to do,” interrupted Martin. “What has all this to do with the teddy, any way? Do you think I stole it so that my van could have a mascot instead? I may be poor, but I could still afford a pair of fluffy dice if that was what I wanted.”

John glanced at Sherlock to fill him in, but he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation and was fiddling with his phone instead. John took that to mean that Martin wasn't a suspect any more. “It's worth a bit of money,” he explained. “Quite a bit of money, actually.”

“Arthur's teddy bear is worth something?” repeated Martin. “But it's ancient!”

“That's rather the point,” said Sherlock, suddenly rejoining the conversation. He held out his phone to Martin. “Am I right in assuming this is the bear?”

Martin looked at the picture on the screen, then shrugged. “It looks like it,” he said, “but I don't think I've ever paid enough attention to it to be able to tell it apart from any other bear dressed as a pilot.”

Sherlock let out a sigh.

“Arthur would know,” added Martin.

Sherlock let out an even deeper sigh. “Let us assume it is the correct bear for the moment. It's just been put on eBay. Amateur – they're never going to get the full worth of the thing on there, and it's horribly easy to track a seller. This theft was done by someone who saw an opportunity, but didn't think beyond that.” He was still tapping away at his phone, frowning at the screen slightly. After a few more minutes he let out a satisfied sound. “And they live in Nuneaton,” he said. He looked up at Martin. “Who have you flown recently who lives there?”

Martin frowned. “Nuneaton?” he said. “I don't – no one, it's all been-” Something suddenly struck him, and his eyes lit up with realisation. “Oh! Carolyn's horrible sister lives in Nuneaton.”

“Sister,” said Sherlock, looking back at his phone, then shook his head. “No good. Unless she's a midget, and particularly spry for her age, there's no way she'd have been able to climb over the fence. Besides, this listing has clearly been written by a teenager. The style is unmistakeable. An over-educated and precocious teenager.”

“She has a vile grandson,” said Martin. “Oh, I bet it was him! He's just the kind of obnoxious brat to know all about antique teddy bears.”

“Are you sure?” John asked. “Breaking into an airfield seems a bit much, even for a family feud.”

“Last time we saw her,” Martin said, “Arthur threw a cake at her. Well, it was sort of a cake in a not-really-a-cake-at-all way – it was one of Arthur's specials. And then we abandoned them in Helsinki.”

“Wow,” said John, raising his eyebrows. “And I thought my family were bad.”

He glanced over at Sherlock to see a speculative expression on his face and instantly realised which way his thoughts were headed. “You are not going to throw a cake at Mycroft,” he said before the idea could worm its way in any deeper.

Sherlock scowled at him, then shrugged. “He'd probably only enjoy it,” he said. He leapt up from the chair. “Right! Let's find Arthur and make sure this is the right bear, then John and I will go and retrieve it for you.”

“We will?” asked John, following him as he bounded out of the office. “All the way to Nuneaton?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, glancing over his shoulder at him with a smirk. “It could be dangerous.”

John snorted. “An elderly woman and a teenager? I'm sure they're terrifying.”

“Kieren is pretty vicious,” said Martin. “He knows karate. And he really enjoys using it – you should watch out for him.”

“I'm sure John can handle a teenager,” said Sherlock. “He did well enough against the Taliban.”

“Well enough?” repeated John. “Sherlock, I got shot!”

“You were shot?” asked Martin, giving John a wide-eyed look.

“I was in the army before I met Sherlock,” John explained.

“Really?” said Martin with interest, looking John over. “Do you still have the uniform?”

John stared at him in surprise, taken aback by his boldness. Martin's ears went pink as he realised what he'd said and the longer John just looked at him, the further the blush travelled across his face. It was one of the most amazing things John had ever seen, and he deliberately put off replying for a bit in order to see more of it.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “And I'll definitely wear it for you if it gets you to blush like that again.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” muttered Sherlock with disgust. “I hope you realise that this tendency to get diverted at the merest suggestion of sex is extremely irritating.”

That made Martin look as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, and John suddenly felt oddly protective of him, as if he should be shielding him somehow from Sherlock's rudeness, even though he knew that trying to prevent Sherlock saying exactly what he wanted to, when he wanted to, was completely impossible.

“Any number of your personality traits are extremely irritating,” he pointed out. “You don't hear me complaining though, do you?”

“Actually,” said Sherlock, “I do. Constantly.”

And there was the perfect way for John to get his own back. “You sounded just like Mycroft then.”

A look of pure, undiluted horror crossed over Sherlock's face. “That was low,” he said after he'd absorbed the impact of it.

John just smiled, then turned to wink at Martin, who sent him an amused grin back.

 

****

 

Arthur was in the plane with Douglas and Carolyn, involved in what looked like a heated debate.

“He's fictional, Arthur,” Douglas was saying in a weary voice.

“If we don't have him, then we've only got four,” said Arthur. “That's not very good at all – we managed eight for Switzerland. Well, you and Mum managed eight, I didn't really help.” He caught sight of Martin. “Skip! Doesn't Hercule Poirot count as a famous Belgian?”

“The rules of Famous People From Small Countries say that they have to be real people,” Martin pointed out. “Otherwise you could have Tintin as well.”

“We do have Hergé,” said Douglas. “I'm sorry, Arthur, I think you're just going to have to accept that Belgium doesn't have as many famous people as Switzerland. Lord knows why – possibly something to do with the chocolate.”

“Do you have Albert Claude?” asked John. “The biochemist who first isolated a cancer cell?”

“Oh, that's a good one,” said Martin with approval.

“If I could interrupt what seems to be a truly fascinating game,” said Sherlock. “Is this your bear?” He handed his phone to Arthur.

Arthur took one look at it and his face lit up. “Douglas!” he said. “You found him!”

“I found a photo of him,” Sherlock corrected. “He's being sold on eBay.”

“Then we can just buy him back,” said Arthur.

“I am not spending money on something that we already own,” cut in Carolyn.

“He's traced the seller to Nuneaton,” said Martin. “I thought it might be Ruth and Kieren.”

Carolyn's face took on a black look. “That awful woman! I'm going to crush her until she begs for mercy, and then I'll crush her a bit more.”

“That rather sounds rather like what happened to Martin last time we saw her and Kieren,” said Douglas. Martin glared at him.

“Right,” said Sherlock, putting his phone away. “John and I will retrieve the bear, then.”

“Ooh, can I come?” asked Arthur.

“Certainly not,” said Sherlock. “It's official detective business, and there's no place for idiots.”

“Sherlock, how are you intending us to get to Nuneaton?” asked John. “I'm not getting a train that far – God knows how much we'd get charged for that.”

“I'll give you a lift,” said Martin.

“Oh, I just bet you will,” said Douglas in an undertone that was mostly ignored, although Martin's ears did go faintly pink again.

“Martin's not a detective,” said Arthur. “If he's going, can I go? Please? Please please please? I promise not to get in the way or do or say anything. I won't even throw a cake this time.”

Sherlock threw his arms in the air. “Oh, fine,” he said. “Come if you must. Everyone should come – let's turn it into an excursion for idiots!” He turned and stalked out of the aeroplane.

“Brilliant!” beamed Arthur.

“Right,” said Martin. “I'll get the keys to my van.”

John thought about being trapped in a van for three hours with Arthur being enthusiastic at Sherlock. Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

“We could take my car,” suggested Arthur, which sounded at least more comfortable but might involve Arthur driving again, which would probably be enough to give John a PTSD relapse.

“Whose car?” prompted Douglas.

“We can take Douglas's car that used to be mine and that he lets me drive,” corrected Arthur. “Four of us will fit better in it.”

“Fine, but I'm driving,” said Martin. John let out a tiny sigh of relief.

“And I'll let you have it for a very competitive rate,” said Douglas as if he was being generous.

“Yes,” said Carolyn. “For free. This is company business, Douglas.”

“Oh, come on, Carolyn,” said Douglas. “A teddy bear is not company business.”

“If it isn't, then neither is your hotel room in Dallas,” said Carolyn.

“In that case,” said Douglas, “I would be more than happy to contribute to this retrieval mission by providing the transportation.”

“Excellent,” said Carolyn. “Come on, Arthur, I'll find you that hideous woman's address.”

She swept out of the aeroplane with Arthur on her heels, and Martin glanced after them, then back at John. “I should go with them and make sure that Arthur actually brings it,” he said.

John nodded. “I'll find Sherlock, then meet you in the carpark,” he said.

Martin nodded his head awkwardly, staring at John for a moment or two before he ducked his head and left. John watched him go, enjoying the view, then prepared to go and hunt down Sherlock.

A throat was cleared behind him. “A word, if I may, Doctor Watson.”

John stopped and turned back, where Douglas was leaning against the doorway to the cockpit, arms folded as he regarded John with narrowed eyes.

“Yes?” asked John, trying to prevent the automatic straightening of his spine. Douglas was not a superior officer, and he was not still in the army.

“I just wanted to let you know that while it may appear that Martin is the perfect substitute for your emotionally-stunted colleague, there are people who would take it very badly if you should hurt him,” said Douglas.

Oh God, it was the over-protective pseudo-big-brother speech. “What on earth makes you think I'm going to hurt him?” he said, then his brain caught up with the rest of the sentence. “Wait, substitute for Sherlock? Why on earth would I want another Sherlock? One is quite enough. Besides, Martin is nothing like him.”

Douglas snorted. “Oh, come on,” he said. “The physical resemblance is a little uncanny. Just because Sherlock won't let you have sex with him doesn't mean you can use Martin instead.”

John gaped at him. “They don't look anything alike!” he protested. “And I really do not want to have sex with Sherlock. At all. Ever. I wish people would stop assuming that I do.”

“Of course they look alike,” said Douglas. “Don't try and pretend you haven't noticed.”

“They really don't,” said John. He mentally compared them. “Sherlock's all gangly and a bit odd-looking. Martin's shorter, and ginger, and has actual colour in his face, and just- looks like an actual person instead of a vampire.”

Douglas gave him a very long look. “You really haven't noticed,” he said. His face broke into an amused grin that was more worrying than the glare he'd had earlier. “Well, in that case, I wish you luck. You're almost certainly going to need it.”

 

****

 

“Yellow car,” said Arthur for the tenth time since they'd set out. John felt his teeth clench, and looked out of the window so that Martin, sitting beside him in the driver's seat, wouldn't notice that his patience with Arthur was beginning to run out.

Sherlock was curled up in the back seat, either asleep or faking it well enough to prevent conversation, which should have given John the perfect chance to talk to Martin, but with Arthur pointing out every yellow car they passed and occasionally offering jelly babies, John felt a bit restrained.

“That wasn't a car,” said Martin. “It was a van.”

“That counts,” said Arthur. “Yellow Car can include all yellow methods of transport – do you remember when we were in Prague and we saw that yellow plane? That was brilliant!”

“I remember that you certainly thought so,” said Martin. He glanced at John. “He didn't shut up about for the whole flight back.”

“It was just brilliant,” repeated Arthur happily. “Oh, yellow car!”

John let out a long, slow breath. It was going to be a long trip.

 

****

 

Happily, Arthur took Sherlock as an example and dozed off as well after another twenty minutes of Yellow Car.

“I know he can be a bit wearing,” said Martin, “but he's harmless, really.”

“He seems very up-beat,” offered John.

Martin grinned. “Oh yes. The constant cheeriness is probably what's most wearing.”

John turned in his seat so that he could keep Martin in his gaze, watching the way he drove with careful attention to detail. He wondered if that was how he flew as well and thought, as Martin checked all the mirrors and his blind spot before changing lanes, that it probably was.

He searched his face for a moment, trying to see the resemblance to Sherlock that Douglas had been talking about. He couldn't see it at all except in a very superficial 'they're both a bit skinny with curly hair' way. He didn't stop looking once he'd decided that Douglas had been talking rubbish, though. After all, staring out at cars and half-expecting Arthur's voice to pipe up every time he saw a yellow one was not nearly as much fun as watching the way that Martin slowly became aware of his scrutiny and then started to flush a faint pink.

“So, you were in the Army?” he asked in a slightly strangled and high-pitched tone. “That must have been exciting.”

John laughed. “A bit exciting, yes,” he said. “What with the gunfights and all.”

“Sorry,” apologised Martin. “That was a stupid thing to say.” He looked a bit tense, as if he was mentally kicking himself, and John wanted to make that melt away, or change it to the better kind of tense – the kind that came with stuttering and blushing, if he was lucky.

“It wasn't always exciting,” he said. “There was quite a bit of sitting around with not much going on as well.”

“Being a pilot's a bit like that,” said Martin. “Lots of just flying, or waiting around to be flying, but occasionally something will happen, like another bit of Gertie will fall off, or Arthur will give a passenger a heart attack, or we'll get trapped in Douz by a power-crazed airfield manager, and those bits are usually pretty exciting.”

John raised his eyebrows. “They sound it. Do bits of the plane fall off a lot, then?”

“Oh, no, of course not. Hardly ever,” said Martin quickly. “Nothing important, anyway. Well, rarely something important.”

“Right,” said John carefully, thinking to himself that maybe he'd leave getting to see Martin fly until they had access to a different plane. Assuming, of course, that he'd see Martin again after they'd got the teddy bear back. He looked over at him again, licking his lips nervously and thinking about asking him to dinner sometime, but he was very aware of Arthur and Sherlock, asleep and faking sleep in the back. He'd wait until they were alone.

“That's why we play games like the famous Belgians thing,” said Martin, still speaking just a bit too fast. “Because of the long hours of not much happening, I mean, not because of bits falling off the plane.”

“Oh, right,” said John. He thought back to the brief amount they'd overheard. “Douglas said they had four, including Hergé,” he said. “I wonder who the others were.”

Martin thought for a moment. “Arthur will have said Jean Claude van Damme,” he said. “Or Jean-Paul Gautier or something similar, but he'd have meant Jean Claude van Damme.”

“There's bound to have been at least one painter,” said John, thinking back to the posters of famous art works that one of his girlfriends at university had stuck up all around her room. “Rubens was Belgian, I think.”

“That's three,” said Martin. “Audrey Hepburn was born there, that's four.”

“Was she?” asked John. “I didn't know that.”

Martin shrugged. “My sister worshipped her when we were teenagers. Tried to base her entire style on her, although it didn't look very good when it was put together from whatever she could find in Oxfam.”

John pictured it and laughed. “Yeah, my sister had a brief thing for her as well,” he said. “In a different way though, probably. She's a lesbian – Audrey Hepburn and Gillian Anderson were her first crushes, I think.”

“Oh, so you're both gay,” said Martin and then instantly backtracked. “I mean, not that you've said you're gay, but it's pretty obvious, unless you're not, in which case I'm just being wrong and an idiot and you should ignore me.”

There really was something completely adorable about the way Martin could speak at twice the normal speed when he thought he'd said something wrong. John grinned. “If you can't tell that I fancy men,” he said, “then I'm going to need to flirt a great deal harder than I have been.”

Martin instantly went a very bright red. “No, no, you're okay,” he said in a strained voice. “You've been flirting enough. I was just- making sure.” He cleared his throat and added, in a quieter voice, “People don't usually flirt with me.”

John found that impossible to believe. “You're joking, right?” he said. “Who wouldn't flirt with an attractive airline Captain?”

“Attractive?” repeated Martin incredulously, then he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean, yes, obviously attractive – no, wait, I don't find myself attractive, I'm not-” He forcibly stopped himself and took a breath. “People don't generally call me attractive either,” he finished.

“Idiots,” declared John, then made a face when he realised he sounded exactly like Sherlock.

Martin sent him a quick, pleased look before turning back to the road. “Right, so, we've got four Belgians,” he said. “And the one you said in the plane, the biochemist, is five.”

“Albert Claude,” said John. “And there's another one, a bacteriologist.” He had to think for a few moments before the name came back to him, floating off the memory of one of his old medical textbooks. “Jules Bordet.”

“Six,” said Martin. “We're beating Douglas and Carolyn.”

“There has to be more than that,” said John, frowning to himself. “Sportsmen?”

“Sportswomen,” said Martin. “There's a tennis player...damn, what's her name? Kim Cli-something.” He frowned to himself, and John wanted to run his thumb over the lines that formed on his forehead, but restrained himself in the interests of avoiding a traffic accident. “Clijsters!” announced Martin after a moment.

“Seven!” said John. “We're on a roll!”

There was a short pause while they both thought hard, trying to come up with more. It was getting tricky, though, and John was starting to wonder if they'd hit their limit when there was a mumble from Sherlock.

“Eugene Ysaye.”

John frowned and turned back to look at him, but he still appeared to be fast asleep.

“What did he say?” asked Martin.

“Not sure,” said John. “Eugene something.”

A frown creased Sherlock's brow. “Eugene Ysaye,” he repeated in a clearer tone, confirming John's suspicions about just how asleep he was.

“Who's he?” he asked.

There was a long-suffering sigh from Sherlock. “Well-known violinist,” he said without opening his eyes.

“That's eight, then,” said Martin. “Got any others?”

John looked expectantly at Sherlock, who stayed silent for a few moments. John was wondering if he'd gone back to pretending to be asleep, then Sherlock said, in a rapid-fire list, “Marc Dutroux, serial killer; Madani Bouhouche, murderer; Patrick Haemers, kidnapper; Phillipe Lacroix, psychopath; Nordine Ben Allal, violent criminal and escape artist.”

Oh, obviously they'd all be criminals.

“Uh, right,” said Martin. “Not sure those really count – they've got to be famous enough for, um, non-specialised people to have heard of them.”

“Fine, then,” said Sherlock in an annoyed voice, finally opening his eyes. “Maurice Maeterlinck. Won the Nobel Prize for Literature. That non-specialised enough for you?”

John stared at him. “How on earth do you know the name of a Belgian writer?” he asked.

Sherlock scowled at him. “He wrote a particularly good book about bees,” he said.

Right. Of course. Sherlock's obsession with bees was just another of the facets of his personality that John hadn't really worked out yet.

“Well,” said Martin, “that gives us nine then.”

“Fourteen,” muttered Sherlock sulkily. Both John and Martin ignored him.

“That's far more than Douglas and Carolyn,” added Martin, then sent a grin at John. “We're a good team.”

John grinned back. “We should do pub quizzes,” he said.

“Dull!” announced Sherlock from the back and was again ignored.

“I'd like that,” said Martin, looking away from the road long enough to trap John with a tentative look.

John smiled back, hoping that he'd be able to get him alone very soon so that he could ask him out without the audience of a silently-judging Sherlock and a not-so-silently-snoring Arthur.

 

****

 

When they finally made it to Carolyn's sister's house, Sherlock sprang out of the car as if he hadn't been hunched up in the same position for nearly three hours while the rest of them climbed out at a slower pace. Arthur was clearly still half-asleep and John had to roll his bad shoulder a few times to try and relax the ache in it.

“Right, it's number 17,” said Martin, looking at the houses.

Sherlock strode up to the right one without waiting and John scrambled to catch up with him, more than aware that he'd just leave them behind if they were too slow. Sherlock rang the doorbell with a hard press, ringing again when it wasn't answered within three seconds.

When the door was finally opened, it was by an irritated-looking woman who might have borne a resemblance to Carolyn if you tilted your head, half-shut your eyes, and wiped away some of the lines of bitterness that creased her face.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am here on a criminal matter,” said Sherlock. “May we come inside?”

“What?” she snapped, looking past Sherlock to take in the rest of them. Her gaze lit on Martin, and then on Arthur. “What on earth are you two dangerous idiots doing here?”

“Hello, Auntie,” said Arthur with a little wave.

“I am not letting him in my house,” she said, jabbing a finger at Martin. “He attacks children!”

Martin let out a quiet, exasperated noise. “It was a clip round the ear,” he muttered.

“Mrs. Pender,” said Sherlock in a loud, carrying voice. “Captain Crieff is here to ensure the safe return of some stolen property, in exchange for which no charges will be brought.”

“Stolen property?” repeated Mrs. Pender. “I'm sure that I really have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Three months for trespassing on an airfield,” said Sherlock. “Seven years for theft. Do you think you'll enjoy prison?” He was still speaking loudly, and John saw the curtain of the house next door twitch.

So did Mrs. Pender. She pursed her lips and opened her door wider. “I suppose you'll have to come in,” she said, then added in a louder voice that was clearly aimed at the neighbour's house, “although this is clearly some sort of mistake.”

John followed Sherlock inside. The house was decorating with a heavy emphasis on floral motifs and fussy little details, including lace doilies. John made a face – he hated doilies.

There was a teenage boy in the sitting room, sitting at a computer. “Granny,” he said, “We're at six hundred already!” He turned around and the excitement died on his face when he saw their visitors.

Sitting next to the computer was a teddy bear in a pilot's outfit. Arthur let out a little cry when he saw it and darted forward. “Douglas!” He picked it up and gave it a hug.

“Make sure that it's the correct bear,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, right! Of course,” said Arthur. “It could be a cunning ruse!” He started to examine the bear.

“Hey, leave that,” said the boy. “That's mine!”

“It most certainly is not,” said Sherlock.

“It is!” insisted the boy. “I've had him years, haven't I, Granny?”

“Of course you have, Kieran,” said Granny. “I really must protest this invasion.”

“It's definitely Douglas,” said Arthur. “Look, there's the bit where I tried to cut his legs off, before Mum got really angry and made me stop.”

“You tried to cut his legs off?” asked Martin incredulously. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“I wanted to make him look more like Douglas Bader,” said Arthur. “That's who he's named after, you know.”

“My god, you really are a cretin, aren't you?” said Kieran. “Don't you realise how much this bear is worth?”

“I thought you said it was yours, and that you'd had it for years,” said Sherlock.

Kieran scowled. “I have,” he said. “He's mine.” He snatched the bear back from Arthur.

“Hey!” said Arthur. “He's mine!” He reached for the bear and Kieran darted back, away from him.

“You can't have it,” he said.

“I really think you should leave,” said Mrs. Pender. “Unless you have any proof of these ridiculous accusations.”

“We're not leaving without Douglas!” said Arthur and started towards Kieran, who dropped back a step, then attacked Arthur with a powerful-looking high kick, catching him right in the stomach. Arthur made a noise like a deflating football as the air left his lungs and he fell backwards.

“Kieran!” exclaimed Mrs. Pender.

“He was going to attack me!” protested Kieran.

Right, that was it. John had had enough of this nonsense. “Give me the bear,” he said.

“No,” said Kieran. “It's mine!”

Well, John had given him a chance. He stepped forward, neatly avoided the kick Kieran sent at him and grabbed his foot before he could recover it. Kieran wobbled awkwardly for a moment on one foot, his eyes going wide as he realised just how precarious his position was. John tugged on his leg, sending him off-balance, and caught him as he fell forwards, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Let me go!” shrieked Kieran. “This is child abuse!”

John ignored him and looked around. Arthur was still on the floor, groaning quietly, and Sherlock had disappeared somewhere, so he fixed his eyes on Martin. “Get the bear off him,” he said.

Martin hesitated, then took a deep breath as if steeling himself to approach a tiger, and stepped close enough to pull the bear out of Kieran's grip. He darted back out of the way as soon as he had it with a triumphant, “Ha-HA!” noise.

“Get off me!” cried Kieran, struggling uselessly against John's grip.

“Are you going to try and hurt me if I do?” asked John.

“I'm going to do more than try,” said Kieran, “I'm going to beat you until you cry!”

“Right,” said John. “Well, as much as I doubt that you could, I'm sure you'll understand if I just keep hold of you for the moment.”

“You are a bully and a thug!” said Mrs. Pender, with more than a touch of hysteria. “Unhand my grandson!”

“Your grandson is guilty of theft,” announced Sherlock, coming back into the room. “And here is the proof you demanded earlier.” He was carrying a black sweatshirt that said 'Nuneaton Karate School' on it in red letters.

“Put that down, that's not yours,” said Mrs. Pender.

“Ah, so you recognise it,” said Sherlock.

“Of course I do, it's Kieran's,” she said. “You've just gone and picked it up from the laundry pile. I'm afraid I don't see that as proof of anything, except perhaps that you have some kind of disturbing laundry fetish.”

“There's a hole in it,” said Sherlock, showing her a tiny rip in the sleeve. “And this,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of black thread, “matches exactly. I found it on the fence at Fitton airfield.”

Mrs. Pender went a very strange purple colour and looked over at Kieran.

“Don't worry, Granny,” said Kieran with more confidence than John felt a boy caught as firmly as he was should have. “I'll sort this out.”

“Why don't you just give up?” asked Martin. “We've got the bear and now we just want to leave. We're not even going to call the police.”

“Stop mentioning the police!” said Kieran. “Of course you're not going to call them – if you did, we'd just tell them that you assaulted Granny with some sort of biological weapon and then stranded us in Helsinki.”

“It was a cake!” protested Arthur in a weak voice. He'd recovered enough to stand up but he was bent over and still holding his stomach.

“And the police won't care about that at all,” pointed out Sherlock. “Finland is a little out of their jurisdiction. Come on, John,” he added. “This is dull now, and I want to get back to London.” He left the room, and a moment later John heard the front door open and shut.

“If I let go of you,” he said to Kieran, “are you going to try and attack anyone? Bearing in mind that I can, and will, take you down extremely easily.”

“No,” said Kieran sulkily. John let him go and he immediately launched himself at Martin, clearly aiming to get the bear off him. Martin let out an impressively high-pitched cry of terror and tried to step backwards, tripping over the coffee table and ending up sprawled on the floor.

John sighed, reflecting that he really should have seen that coming as he jumped forward and grabbed for Kieran again.

“Kieran!” said Mrs. Pender in a commanding voice. “Stop that!”

Kieran, to John's great surprise, actually stopped. “Granny,” he started, but she interrupted him.

“No, that's quite enough of that. I will not let you destroy my living room in a brawl over a teddy bear, especially not with common thugs like these men. Let it go.”

Kieran reluctantly stood back, and John stepped forward to hold his hand out to Martin to help him up. Martin had gone a bit pink again, looking more than a little sheepish at his reaction to Kieran's attack, and John found himself wishing that he could join him on the floor and see how far down the blush went.

Martin cleared his throat and stepped away from John the moment he was upright. “Here you are, Arthur,” he said, holding the bear out to Arthur.

“Thanks!” said Arthur, taking it. “Gosh, he's even more like Douglas Bader now – he was a prisoner of war too, you know.”

“I'm not sure this counts as being a prisoner of _war_ ,” said Martin, but Arthur's attention had already wandered.

“Goodbye, Auntie,” he said. “It was nice to see you again. Well, no, it was horrible actually, but that's what you're meant to say.”

“Get out of my house,” said Mrs. Pender.

“With pleasure,” said John. He, Martin and Arthur left, ignoring the glare of hatred that Kieran sent after them.

Sherlock was already in the car, stretched out along the back seat with his eyes shut. Arthur wrenched open the back door. “That was brilliant!” he said. “Thank you so much!”

“Don't mention it,” said Sherlock.

“The way you found his sweatshirt! And had the threads from it! It was just like Miss. Marple!”

Sherlock flinched. “I thought I told you not to mention it,” he said.

“Right,” said Arthur. “Well, if you could just move your legs then, so I can get in.”

“No,” said Sherlock.

Arthur looked nonplussed. “Um. It's just I need to be able to sit where they are, you see.”

“You may ride in the boot,” said Sherlock.

Arthur perked up. “Oh, that sounds fun!”

“No one is riding in the boot,” said John quickly. “Sherlock, move yourself or I'll pull you out by your feet and leave you here.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at John, then reluctantly moved so that Arthur could get in.

“Thanks!” said Arthur, scrambling in and shutting the door behind him.

John turned to Martin with a grin. “It's like travelling with small children,” he said.

Martin laughed. “If we're really lucky, they'll fall asleep again,” he said.

John glanced at where Arthur could be seen bouncing slightly, talking a mile a minute and ignoring the glare of death that Sherlock had turned on him. “Hopefully,” he said, thinking that it looked pretty unlikely.

“Look, John,” said Martin hesitantly. “I just- I just wanted to thank you. You know, for not letting Kieran hurt me. Not that he could have, I'm sure I could have protected myself, but it was good of you to step in. You, uh,” his voice lowered. “You were really impressive.”

John privately doubted that Martin would have stood a chance against Kieran, especially given the broad hints that had been flying around about a previous altercation between them. He rather liked the idea of Martin thinking that he was impressive, though, so he didn't point out that restraining a teenager was pretty easy compared to most of the fights-with-criminals that Sherlock's work managed to entangle him in.

“Well, maybe you could repay me,” he suggested. “How about having dinner with me?”

Martin's face lit up. “Yes!” he said immediately in a high tone. “Yes, that would,” he paused and cleared his throat, then continued in a more normal voice, “that would be good. Really good. Great, in fact.”

“Excellent,” said John, grinning at him and then, on impulse, reached out and took his hand. It was surprisingly large in his grip, and he had a sudden flash to what it might feel like on other parts of his body.

Martin gripped his hand for a moment, blushing in yet another new way, and John wondered if he'd ever manage a full catalogue of all the different ways that his face could go red, then Martin darted his head forward, catching John's mouth in an awkward peck of a kiss.

He was moving too fast and their lips met with just a fraction too much strength, and he immediately pulled away again, but John wasn't having that. He grabbed the back of Martin's neck and pulled him in again, kissing the stuttered apology off his lips and trying to demonstrate just how much he'd been wanting to do it since Martin had walked into the MJN Air office earlier.

There was a loud honk from the car horn. “For God's sake, John!” came Sherlock's furious voice. “Cease this disgusting display and get me back to London immediately!”

John smiled against Martin's mouth, and ignored Sherlock in favour of kissing him again.


End file.
